Day 49 - Morning
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The tent flap opened, and the khalasar fell silent.
Drogo emerged into the morning light, and the warriors who had known him for decades barely recognized what stepped out. The man who had been Khal—the greatest warrior the Dothraki had produced in generations—was gone. In his place stood something that belonged to legend rather than reality.
His skin had been replaced by scales that gleamed bronze in the sunlight, layered like armor forged by gods. His face had elongated into something halfway between human and dragon, with eyes that burned golden-orange like banked coals. When he smiled—and he was smiling, a fierce expression of savage joy—his teeth were sharp points that could tear through flesh as easily as his old arakh had.
He was taller, too. Broader. The muscles that had always been impressive now bulged with supernatural density, and when he moved, it was with the fluid grace of a predator that had never known fear.
"Well?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the gathered crowd. "Does no one have questions for your Khal?"
The silence stretched for three heartbeats before Jhogo stepped forward, his hand hovering near his weapon out of pure instinct.
"Drogo?" The ko's voice carried uncertainty that Angelus had never heard from him before. "Is it truly you?"
"It is me. Changed, yes, but still Drogo. Still the man who led you across the Dothraki Sea and taught you that strength is the only law that matters." Drogo raised one scaled hand, examining it in the light. "The dragon offered me power beyond anything I'd dreamed, and I accepted. Now I am something more than human—a being that will help us build an empire that makes the old khals look like children playing at conquest."
"How do you feel?" another voice called from the crowd. "Does it hurt? Are you still... yourself?"
Drogo laughed, a sound that carried an edge of dragonfire.
"I feel like I could wrestle a stallion to the ground with my bare hands and not break a sweat. I could run from here to Vaes Dothrak without stopping for water. Every sense I have has been sharpened until the world is more vivid than I ever knew it could be." He flexed his clawed fingers, watching the way the scales caught the light. "And yes, I am still myself. My memories, skills, pride—all of that remains. What's changed is my potential. I am no longer limited by what human flesh can achieve."
The murmuring intensified, fear and awe mixing in equal measure. Angelus watched the crowd's reactions, cataloging who showed interest and who showed only terror.
"Drogo speaks true," she announced, her voice carrying easily across the gathering. "The transformation preserves everything that matters—mind, memory, identity. What it adds is capability beyond human limits. Strength to match monsters. Endurance that never fails. And eventually, for those whose bodies adapt fully, breath weapons that can turn enemies to ash."
That got their attention. The Dothraki had seen what dragonfire could do. The prospect of breathing it themselves was enough to make even the most skeptical warrior reconsider.
"Drogo was the first," Angelus continued, "but he will not be the last. I am offering this transformation to any who wish to receive it—but I must warn you that the process is painful, and it takes time. What I did with Drogo required hours of direct attention and significant magical expenditure. I cannot repeat that for thousands of warriors individually."
She paused, letting them absorb this.
"Instead, I will adjust the ritual for those who volunteer. You will receive my blood and my essence, and your bodies will begin to change—but the transformation will happen gradually, over weeks rather than hours. You will gain some features immediately, others will develop as your flesh adapts. The end result will be the same: Dragonborn, with all the power that implies. But the path to get there will be longer."
"And the loyalty?" Jhogo asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Drogo said he is bound to you now. Will we be bound as well?"
"Yes. The transformation creates a connection—it's not slavery or mind control, but a deep and fundamental loyalty to me and to Daenerys that becomes part of your nature. If that bothers you, if the idea of serving something greater than yourself is too much to accept, then don't volunteer." Angelus's eyes swept the crowd. "But understand this: the world is changing. The khalasar as you knew it is ending. What rises from its ashes will be something new—stronger, worthy of the challenges we will face. Those who refuse to adapt will be left behind."
---
Daenerys stepped forward then, her dark armor gleaming, her silver crown catching the light.
The transformation of the past weeks had remade her into something that commanded attention without effort. She stood taller now, her body athletic and powerful, her slitted purple eyes holding a confidence that hadn't existed when Viserys sold her to this khalasar. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of someone who expected to be obeyed.
"There is another matter to address," she said, switching to Dothraki that flowed as naturally as her native Valyrian. "Concerning the nature of my relationship with Angelus."
Through their bond, Angelus felt a pulse of nervous determination—and then amusement as she realized what Daenerys was about to do.
Dany, what are you—
"Among my people, there are traditions about who a queen may take as consort," Daenerys continued, her chin lifted proudly. "Among the Dothraki, I know the customs are different. But I want there to be no confusion, no whispers or uncertainties about where my loyalties lie."
She turned to face Angelus directly, and the dragon felt something warm unfurl in her chest at the fierce devotion in those purple eyes.
"Angelus is my partner. Not just as an ally, not just as the power behind my throne, but in every way that matters. She is the one I have chosen, and that choice is final." Daenerys looked back at the assembled warriors with a piercing gaze. "If any among you have objections to this—that any of you believe that a khaleesi's heart should belong to a human man instead of a dragon—I suggest you speak now, or forever hold your peace."
The silence that followed was profound.
Angelus recovered from her surprise faster than she'd expected, a deep chuckle rumbling through her chest. Bold move, little queen. I didn't know you had it in you.
You've been teaching me that boldness wins battles, Daenerys replied through their link. I decided to apply the lesson.
And what if someone had objected?
Then I would have dealt with them. But I knew they wouldn't. The Dothraki respect strength, and right now, the strongest thing in this camp is standing beside me.
Angelus felt her estimation of her partner rise another notch. The girl who had trembled at her wedding feast was gone and replaced with a queen who understood power and wasn't afraid to claim it.
I'm still wondering if she'll ever do a Vergil and say "I need more power." while dramatically closing her fingers in front of her face. Pfft haha. That'll be a treat.
Angelus chuckled through their bonds, causing Dany to face her but not understanding why since Angelus kept that inner thought from her.
Angelus returns her attentions to the khalasar.
"You heard your khaleesi," Angelus said to the crowd, letting warm approval color her voice. "Any questions?"
There were none.
---
The New Order
---
The transformation of the khalasar began in earnest.
By the end of the first day, nearly two hundred warriors had volunteered for the Dragonborn conversion. Angelus processed them in batches—infusing her blood into their systems, triggering the initial stages of transformation, then sending them to recover while she worked on the next group. The adjusted ritual was less dramatic than what she'd done with Drogo, but she could already see the changes beginning: scales emerging along arms and shoulders, eyes taking on hints of supernatural luminescence, bodies growing denser with enhanced muscle.
The cultural changes were harder to implement than the physical ones.
"Armor," Angelus announced during the first training session, gesturing toward the piles of equipment that Drogo's warriors had been gathering from raid spoils for months. "Every warrior in this khalasar will wear it from now on. Leather at minimum, metal when available."
The reaction was immediate and hostile.
"Armor is for cowards!" one of the senior bloodriders growled. "The Dothraki have always fought without it. Our speed, our skill—these are our protection. A true warrior doesn't hide behind metal shells!"
"A true warrior doesn't get killed by a lucky arrow because he was too proud to wear something that would have stopped it." Angelus let fire flicker at the corners of her jaws, a reminder of exactly who they were arguing with. "I've watched civilizations rise and fall over more years than your forefathers has been sucking their mother's teats. Every single culture that rejected practical protection in favor of 'warrior honor' eventually got conquered by someone more pragmatic. The Dothraki's contempt for armor isn't tradition—it's stupidity that your enemies have been exploiting for generations."
Some warriors bristled at the insult to their ancestors but responded. "We've never been conquered," another warrior protested.
"You've never faced anyone worth conquering you for. What happens when we march against enemies with crossbows? With fortified positions? With monsters that don't care about your braid or your bells?" Angelus rose to her full height, towering over the assembled warriors. "You can hold onto your pride and die, or you can adapt and live. I don't care which you choose, but the ones who stay in this khalasar will wear armor. End. Of. Discussion."
The grumbling continued, but nobody was stupid enough to argue further.
Training adapted as well. Angelus introduced weapons that the Dothraki had traditionally scorned—spears, shields, crossbows—alongside their beloved arakhs. She drilled them in formation fighting, in coordinated tactics, using disciplined military operations that had been foreign to Dothraki culture for centuries.
"We are not a horde anymore," she told them during one particularly grueling session. "A horde charges and hopes that overwhelming numbers will carry the day. She moves her gaze across the warriors with a threatening look. And if I see one of you attempting something like that, I'm roasting you alive. Some of the warriors chuckled despite the pain from training while a few others flinched from the threat, showing that they were thinking of doing exactly that in the future.
Angelus continued. No, what we're building is an army—a force that can take objectives, hold territory, and defeat enemies that outnumber us through superior coordination and planning."
"And what do we call ourselves now?" Daenerys asked, standing at Angelus's side in her dark armor, her bastard sword resting comfortably at her hip. "If we're no longer just a khalasar?"
Angelus had been thinking about this.
"Zaldri-Rhaes," she said, testing the words. "Dragon-Blood, in the High Valyrian dialect. By serving me, by accepting transformation, you elevate yourselves above ordinary humans. You become kin to dragons—and you will act accordingly."
The name spread through the camp like wildfire.
---
The Hunt
---
Two weeks after the cultural reforms began, Angelus sent out the first proper hunting party.
Drogo led it, his Dragonborn form making him the obvious choice for the most dangerous prey. Daenerys rode at his side, her griffin-material armor catching the sunlight, her weapons secured at various points on her saddle. A dozen other warriors accompanied them—half transformed Dragonborn whose changes were nearly complete, half human volunteers who wanted to prove themselves worthy of the next conversion batch.
"Remember what I told you," Angelus said through her bond with Daenerys as the party departed. "Griffins hunt in mated pairs more often than not. If you encounter one, assume there's another nearby."
I remember. We'll be careful.
And use the Observe ability on everything you encounter. The information might save your life.
Yes, mother.
The teasing tone made Angelus snort. Brat. Come back in one piece.
The hunting party was gone for three days.
When they returned, they were carrying two massive griffin carcasses—and four of their number were draped across horses, dead.
---
Angelus felt the grief through their bond before the party was even visible.
What happened?
We found them, Daenerys sent back, her mental voice heavy with exhaustion and sorrow. A mated pair, just like you warned. Drogo took one, I took the other. We won, but... it cost us.
The party rode into camp in silence, their remaining members battered but victorious. The griffin corpses drew awed stares from the assembled warriors—these were adult specimens, far larger than the ones Angelus had hunted during her recovery period. Killing even one would have been an impressive feat. Killing two was unprecedented.
But the cost...
Angelus examined the dead warriors as they were laid out for burial rites. Two Dragonborn whose transformations hadn't saved them from griffin talons, two human volunteers who'd been caught in the initial clash before anyone could react. Good warriors, all of them. The kind of losses that hurt.
"They fought well," Drogo reported, his bronze scales splashed with dried blood that wasn't all his own. "When the second griffin appeared, they held the line while Daenerys and I engaged. Without them, we would have been overwhelmed."
"Tell me about the fight,*" Angelus said. "All of it."
Drogo's account was thorough. The first griffin had attacked from ambush—standard behavior for the species—and Drogo had intercepted it with his new strength, grappling the creature mid-lunge and bearing it to the ground. The second had appeared moments later, diving for the vulnerable human members of the party.
Daenerys had met it.
"Your khaleesi is terrifying when she fights," Drogo said, something like respect coloring his deep voice. "She didn't hesitate, didn't freeze—just charged the thing with her sword raised and started cutting. It was bigger than her, faster than her, but she didn't seem to care."
He flatter me, Daenerys sent privately. I was absolutely terrified the entire time.
Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's acting despite it.
The fight had devolved into chaos from there. Drogo had finally killed his griffin by tearing its throat out with his claws and teeth—and then, in the heat of battle, something had clicked inside him.
"I breathed fire," he said, a note of wonder in his voice. "Not much—a burst, maybe ten feet long. But it was enough to stun the second griffin, give Daenerys the opening she needed to drive her sword through its eye."
Angelus felt satisfaction pulse through her. The breath weapon was developing exactly as she'd hoped. In a few more weeks, Drogo would be capable of sustained fire-breathing that could turn the tide of entire battles.
"The dead will be honored," she announced. "Buried with the respect due warriors who fell in service to the Zaldri-Rhaes. And their sacrifice will not be wasted—these griffins will provide materials for weapons and armor that will protect their brothers and sisters in battles to come."
---
The Forging
---
The burial was solemn but brief.
Dothraki tradition called for leaving the dead where they fell, letting the earth reclaim them without ceremony. Angelus modified this practice—the fallen were given proper graves, marked with stones carved with their names, their deeds recited before witnesses so that they would be remembered.
"We honor our dead," she told the assembled warriors. "We remember what they gave, and we ensure that their sacrifice meant something. This is not weakness—this is respect for those who served well."
When the ceremonies concluded, Angelus turned her attention to the griffin carcasses.
"Gather the materials," she instructed. "Bones, hide, feathers—everything that can be used for crafting. The rest can be distributed as food, but I want every piece of usable material brought to me."
The khalasar had seen her fly, had seen her breathe fire, had seen her transform Drogo into something superhuman. What they hadn't seen was her magic in its more subtle forms.
Angelus intended to change that.
She established her workspace in the center of camp, making no effort to hide what she was doing. As warriors gathered to watch, she began sorting through the griffin remains with practiced efficiency.
"Magic is not mystical," she explained, projecting her voice so that all could hear. "It is not the province of gods or priests or mysterious forces beyond understanding. Magic is a tool, like any other—a skill that can be learned, refined, and applied with precision. What I am about to demonstrate is something that any of you could learn, given sufficient time and training."
She extended her wing-claws over a pile of griffin bones, and fire began to dance between her fingers.
Not ordinary fire—this was the bright blue-white of magical combustion, far hotter than anything natural wood could produce. The bones glowed under its touch, softening and reshaping according to her will. Around her, warriors watched in stunned silence as raw materials became something more.
"The griffin's skeleton contains magical resonance," she continued, narrating her process for the benefit of those observant enough to learn from it. "The bones remember what they were—creatures of power and ferocity. A skilled crafter can preserve that resonance, enhance it, shape it into weapons that carry some of the griffin's nature forward."
The first blade took shape under her claws. A sword, curved like the Dothraki preferred but reinforced along the spine with griffinbone that would prevent breaking under stress. She quenched it in a solution of her own making—water infused with trace amounts of dragon blood—and the metal sang as it cooled.
"This blade will hold an edge indefinitely," she said, holding it up for inspection. "It will cut through mundane armor as easily as leather, and the griffinbone core means it can damage creatures that would shrug off ordinary steel."
The crowd pressed closer, fascination replacing their earlier uncertainty.
She worked for hours, the pile of raw materials steadily diminishing as weapons and armor pieces accumulated. Swords, spears, reinforced leather armor with griffinhide panels, helmets with feathered crests that weren't just decorative but provided magical protection against mental attacks.
Daenerys watched the entire process with rapt attention.
I didn't know you could do this, she sent through their bond. The crafting, I mean. It's... beautiful, in a way. Like watching an artist.
I've had a lot of time to practice, Angelus replied. Ten thousand years gives you plenty of opportunity to master various skills. Crafting was always one of my favorites—there's something satisfying about taking raw materials and turning them into something useful.
Can you teach me?
Eventually. Your magical ability is still developing, but once you have better control, yes—I'll teach you everything I know.
When the session finally concluded, Angelus had produced enough equipment to outfit several dozen warriors. She distributed the pieces according to her own judgment—giving the best gear to warriors who had distinguished themselves in training, saving a few special items for later—and the recipients accepted their gifts with something approaching reverence.
But the finest pieces she had crafted, she saved for last.
"Drogo," she called, summoning the first Dragonborn to stand before her.
He approached with confident stride. The scales that covered his body gleamed bronze in the firelight, and his golden eyes reflected the flames with an intensity that hadn't existed before his transformation.
"You were the first to accept what I offered," Angelus said. "The first to trust me enough to let me remake you. That courage deserves recognition."
She presented him with the armor she had crafted specifically for his transformed body.
It was a masterwork. The breastplate was forged from overlapping griffinhide panels reinforced with dragon-fired steel, shaped to accommodate his enhanced musculature and the scales that now covered his flesh. Pauldrons rose from his shoulders in sweeping curves that evoked dragon wings. Gauntlets protected his clawed hands without impeding their lethality. And the helmet—a full-face design with eye slits that glowed faintly with protective enchantment—made him look less like a warrior and more like something out of nightmare legend.
"With this armor and your new capabilities, you are something that hasn't existed in this world for an age," Angelus told him. "A Champion of the Draconic Ascendancy. The first of what will eventually become a new kind of army—Dragonborn warriors equipped with the finest gear magic can provide, loyal to something greater than personal glory."
Drogo accepted the armor with a bow that held none of his old Dothraki pride, only genuine respect.
"I will make myself worthy of it," he said simply.
"I know you will."
---
Growth
---
The weeks that followed blurred together in a rhythm of training, transformation, and consolidation.
Daenerys's magical education accelerated as Angelus recovered more of her own power. The dragon's reserves had been growing steadily—fed by the magical creatures that the Zaldri-Rhaes brought back from their hunting expeditions—and with that growth came access to more complex spellwork.
"The spell I'm going to teach you is called 'Shield of the Ascendant,'" Angelus explained during one of their sessions. "It creates a barrier of compressed air and fire around your body that can deflect physical attacks and absorb magical ones. It's not impenetrable, but it will buy you time against threats that would otherwise overwhelm your defenses."
Daenerys closed her eyes, reaching for the well of power that the Pact had opened inside her. The magic came more easily now than it had in those first confused weeks—not instinctive, not yet, but responsive to her will in ways that felt like learning a new language.
"Channel the fire first," Angelus instructed. "Feel the heat building in your core, then shape it with your intention. Don't force it—guide it."
A shimmer appeared around Daenerys's body, flickering at first but growing more stable as she focused. The air around her rippled with heat, and for a moment she looked like she was standing inside a bubble of contained flame.
"Good. Now push it outward, expand the boundary—"
The shield collapsed with a sound like a popped balloon, and Daenerys staggered.
"Too much too fast," Angelus diagnosed. "You're trying to create a full barrier when you should be starting with a partial one. Magic isn't about brute force—it's about efficiency. A small shield that holds is worth more than a large one that fails."
Daenerys nodded, wiping sweat from her brow. "Again?"
Angelus raises one scaled eyebrow. "What do you think?"
Daenerys sighs. "Again."
The training continued, and gradually Daenerys's control improved. By the end of the month, she could maintain the Shield of the Ascendant for several minutes at a time, long enough to matter in actual combat. She'd also mastered half a dozen other spells—fire projection, enhanced perception, temporary strength boosts—that made her capabilities approach the superhuman threshold.
Her physical abilities had grown as well. The combination of intensive training, Pact-enhanced recovery, and magical development had pushed her body beyond what should have been possible. She could run for hours without tiring, lift weights that would have crushed her before the transformation, move with speed that made trained warriors look sluggish by comparison.
And through it all, the bond between her and Angelus deepened.
They had started kissing regularly—not just in private moments but occasionally in public, much to the mixed reactions of the assembled warriors. Daenerys seemed to delight in initiating physical contact, pressing herself against Angelus's scales when they talked, stealing moments of intimacy whenever the opportunity arose.
You're becoming very affectionate, Angelus observed one evening as Daenerys curled against her flank, using the dragon's warmth as a shield against the evening chill.
Do you mind?
Not at all. I'm merely noting the change. The frightened girl who asked permission to touch me seems very far away now.
She is far away. Daenerys's mental voice carried a complexity of emotion that their bond made impossible to hide. I'm becoming someone different—someone stronger, who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to pursue it. And part of what I want is you.
Part?
Fine, All of it, really. But I'm trying not to be overwhelming about it. A hint of teasing colored her thoughts. I know you're ancient and dignified and probably find my enthusiasm amusing.
Angelus curled her neck around to bring her head close to Daenerys's face.
I find your enthusiasm delightful, she said, and pressed her snout against Daenerys's lips in a kiss that made the girl's breath catch.
"Glad to see you approve." Daenerys muttered against the kiss.
---
One Month Later - The Zaldri-Rhaes
---
The khalasar that had belonged to Drogo was unrecognizable.
In the space of thirty days, it had transformed from a traditional Dothraki horde into something unprecedented—a disciplined military force organized around principles that would have been foreign to any previous Khal. The warriors wore armor without complaint now, drilled in formation tactics, and treated their weapons with the respect due tools that might save their lives.
And more than a quarter of them had scales.
The Dragonborn conversions had proceeded steadily, with Angelus processing new volunteers every few days. The gradual transformation meant that warriors could continue their duties while their bodies changed, and the visible progress served as constant advertisement for what awaited those still hesitating. Some had completed their metamorphoses fully—scaled skin, draconic snout, enhanced senses, breath weapons just beginning to manifest. Others were still in transition, their bodies caught between human and Dragonborn in ways that looked uncomfortable but were apparently painless.
The culture shift had taken root as well. The Zaldri-Rhaes organized themselves into Clutches rather than traditional family units, with Champions leading groups of ten to twenty warriors. Drogo commanded the First Clutch—the original volunteers and their most skilled fighters. Other Champions had emerged from the conversion process, natural leaders whose personalities suited the new structure.
And their reputation had begun to spread.
"Traders from Pentos speak of 'the dragon-blooded warriors,'" one of the scouts reported during the morning briefing. "They say the Zaldri-Rhaes kill monsters that other khalasars flee from and that their khaleesi rides with a dragon larger than any ever seen in Essos."
"Exaggeration serves us," Angelus replied. "Let the stories grow. Fear is a weapon that costs nothing to deploy."
The rival khalasars had learned this the hard way. Two smaller hordes had attempted to raid the Zaldri-Rhaes during the month—attracted by rumors of valuable loot, perhaps, or simply unwilling to believe that things had changed as dramatically as reported. Neither raiding party survived to report back to their Khals.
The first had been decimated by Dragonborn warriors who moved with inhuman speed and shrugged off wounds that would have killed ordinary men. The second had met Angelus directly when they threatened the camp's non-combatants.
There hadn't been enough left of them to bury.
"Our magical reserves are approaching optimal levels," Angelus announced to Daenerys that evening, as they sat together reviewing the day's reports. "I've been monitoring my recovery, and I believe we've reached a threshold."
Daenerys looked up from the scroll she'd been studying—one of Angelus's recipe collections, transcribed into Dothraki so that the converted healers could learn to create potions and medicines beyond their traditional knowledge.
"A threshold for what?"
"The eggs." Angelus felt anticipation building in her chest—and through their bond, felt Daenerys's excitement surge in response. "I've recovered enough power to perform the enhancement ritual properly. It's time to hatch your children, Dany."
The nickname had started as a joke, a shortened version of Daenerys that Angelus used when she was feeling particularly fond. Now it had become something more—an intimacy shared between them, a word that no one else was permitted to use.
Daenerys's face lit up with joy that made her transformed features luminous.
"Really? We're really doing this?"
"We're really doing this. Go get the eggs—we'll begin the enhancement tonight."
---
The Enhancement Ritual
---
The three eggs sat in a circle of runes that Angelus had spent hours inscribing into the earth.
The black one with red whorls—the largest, the one that pulsed with ancient ferocity when she reached out with her senses. The cream-white one with gold markings—smaller, gentler, but with a core of unexpected steel. The green one with bronze flecks—balanced, steady, the kind of energy that suggested loyalty and determination.
Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal, she thought, remembering the names that the canonical Daenerys had given them. Named for dead men—a brother who was murdered, another who was worthless, a man who was killed before he could prove himself worthy. What kind of legacy is that to give to dragons?
"Before we begin," Angelus said to Daenerys, who stood across the circle with barely-contained anticipation, "I should explain what happened in the timeline I remember. The one where I didn't arrive to change things."
"What do you mean?"
"In that version of events, you hatched these eggs through fire and sacrifice—walking into Drogo's funeral pyre after he died from an infected wound and a blood mage's curse. You emerged unburned, and the eggs hatched in the flames around you."
Daenerys's expression shifted as she processed this. "You've mentioned part of this during the raid on Lhazareen. The one the blood mage—Mirri Maz Duur was from right?"
"The same, good to see you remembered. To remind you again, she poisoned him under the guise of healing, and you trusted her because you'd saved her from something worse. The Pact we share means your fire immunity likely extends to magical flames now, which is why I'm confident this ritual will work without... dramatic measures."
"And the dragons themselves? What happened to them?"
Angelus hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "They grew massive and powerful. The black one especially—he became the largest dragon since Balerion the Black Dread. But they were never properly trained, never truly understood, and the other you... she lost control of them. One was killed by a magical spear and resurrected as an undead weapon by an ancient evil. The second was killed by a ballista. The last one..."
"The last one?"
"It lived to the end but not before it was used to burn a city full of innocent people, and then that other you was killed by a man your other self loved, who drove a knife into her heart to stop her rampage."
The horror in Daenerys's eyes was profound, but Angelus saw understanding there too—recognition that the story could have been her story, if circumstances had been different.
"That won't happen," Daenerys said firmly. "I won't become that. I won't lose them like that."
"No. You won't. Because I'm going to enhance these eggs before they hatch—purge any lingering instabilities, strengthen their intelligence and obedience, make them part of our pack from the moment they emerge. And we're going to raise them properly, as warriors rather than weapons, as family rather than tools."
"What do I need to do?"
"Watch and learn. Be ready to meet them when they emerge."
Angelus turned her attention to the eggs, reaching out with senses.
The enhancement ritual was complex—a weaving of fire and blood and intention that required precise control. She infused each egg with her own magical aura, creating resonance patterns that would guide the developing creatures toward optimal growth. She cleansed impurities that had accumulated during their centuries of dormancy—traces of madness from the Valyrian bloodline, instabilities that might have manifested as uncontrollable aggression or fractured loyalty. She strengthened the connections between mind and body, intelligence and instinct, ensuring that what emerged would be capable of genuine thought rather than mere animal cunning.
And she made adjustments.
The canonical dragons had been wyverns—two legs, two wings, the body configuration that this world's draconic creatures favored. That was fine; there was nothing wrong with the wyvern form. But she could make them better than they would have been naturally. Faster. Stronger. More resilient against the threats that existed in this fused world.
The black egg drank in her magic like a starving creature, the ancient soul inside it recognizing power that matched its own remembered glory. This one was Balerion, Angelus realized with a start. Not a descendant nor a namesake—the actual dragon who carried Aegon the Conqueror, reborn into this egg.
That explained a great deal about the canonical Drogon's size and ferocity.
"The black egg contains an old soul", she told Daenerys. "Very old, and very powerful. The dragon that hatches from it will be exceptional—but also challenging. He'll need firm handling to keep his aggression in check."
"Can you communicate with it?"
"Not exactly. It's more like... sensing echoes. Fragments of what the soul remembers from its previous life." Angelus focused her attention on the egg, feeling the presence inside it stir in response. "He doesn't remember who he was, but he remembers what he was. A conqueror. A king among dragons. We'll need to help him understand that things are different now."
The ritual continued for hours, each egg receiving individualized attention as Angelus shaped its development. When she finally withdrew her power, the eggs were glowing—the black one pulsing with internal fire, the white one shimmering with pale luminescence, the green one radiating steady warmth.
"Now we wait," Angelus said. "The hatching should begin within—"
The black egg cracked.
---
The Hatching
---
The crack spread across the black shell like lightning, red light blazing from within. A chunk of shell fell away, and a tiny head emerged—dark as midnight, with eyes that glowed like embers and teeth that were already sharp.
The hatchling looked around, its gaze sweeping the circle of runes, passing over Daenerys, and finally fixing on Angelus.
And then it chirped—a sound that was simultaneously adorable and threatening, the proto-roar of something that would one day shake mountains.
"Hello, little one," Angelus said, extending one wing-claw toward the emerging creature. "Welcome to the world."
The black hatchling snapped at her claw, missed, and tumbled out of its shell in a heap of wings and tail and indignation. It was about the size of a large cat, its body already showing the wyvern configuration—two powerful hind legs, wings that would serve as forelimbs once it grew large enough to use them. Its scales were textured like storm clouds, dark and layered, and red light flickered behind them when it opened its mouth to hiss.
Behind it, the white egg was cracking open as well.
This hatchling emerged more carefully, picking its way out of the shell with deliberate movements that suggested caution rather than impatience. It was lighter-colored—silvery-white scales with grey undertones, a more streamlined build than its black sibling. When it looked at Angelus, there was something in its golden-amber eyes that felt almost reverent.
"This one is more cautious, though I can sense some hidden aggression from it that'll appear once it's older." Angelus observed. "But whoever bonds with it will have a very loyal and devoted dragon by their side."
The green egg was last, its shell fragmenting to reveal a hatchling that fell somewhere between its siblings in disposition. Deep green scales covered a muscular body, with bronze-brown wing membranes and spiky ridges running down its back. It assessed its surroundings with intelligent eyes before approaching Daenerys directly, butting its head against her hand in an unmistakable demand for attention.
"This one has a gentler yet wise temperament," Angelus observed. "He'll be a guardian to whoever he bonds with. Standing steadfast against any threats to his partner."
"They're beautiful," Daenerys breathed, scratching behind the green hatchling's head ridges while its siblings investigated their surroundings. "What do we name them?"
Angelus had been thinking about this since she'd first sensed the nature of the black egg's inhabitant.
"The black one—I'd suggest Balerion. The soul inside him is old enough that the name fits, and it honors what he was without trying to pretend he's someone new."
Daenerys nodded slowly. "And the others? The white one and the green one?"
"In my first world, there were other dragons. Companions, enemies, legends that shaped the course of history. One of them was called Mikhail—a white dragon known for unwavering loyalty and devotion to his partner. I'd give that name to this one." She indicated the white hatchling, who was currently trying to climb her foreleg with limited success. "And the green one... Enoch. A name from stories older than Drakengard, associated with wisdom and strength."
"Why those names specifically?"
"Because the alternative would be naming them after dead humans, which is what happened in the timeline I remember. The other you called them Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal—after your dead abusive brother, another brother you never knew, and Drogo himself." Angelus's voice carried an edge. "These are dragons—wyverns, technically, but draconic nonetheless. They deserve names that honor what they are, not memorials to people who failed them."
Daenerys considered this, looking at the three hatchlings as they explored their new environment.
"Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch," she said, testing the names. "I like them. They feel... right."
The black hatchling—Balerion—chose that moment to attempt biting Angelus's tail. She flicked him away with a gentle motion, and he tumbled across the ground with an offended squawk.
"He's going to be trouble," Angelus predicted.
"I'll handle him," Daenerys said, scooping up the indignant hatchling before he could try again. Balerion hissed at her, then seemed to recognize something in her scent or touch, because he settled against her chest with a possessive chirp.
"They're bonding with you already," Angelus observed. "Good. That connection will be important as they grow."
Daenerys pets Balerion's head, Balerion chirps at the attentions. She turns to Angelus. "They'll bond with you too?"
"Eventually. Right now I'm too big and too strange—they don't quite understand what I am. But as they develop, they'll recognize me as the alpha dragon, and that recognition will translate into obedience."
Mikhail had succeeded in climbing Angelus's foreleg and was now perched on her shoulder, it's tail wrapped around one of her horns for stability. Enoch remained with Daenerys, butting his head against her hand whenever she stopped petting him. Causing Balerion to fuss as Enoch for competition for attention.
"Speaking of different kinds of dragons," Daenerys said, "you've mentioned before that there's a difference between true dragons and wyverns. Which category do these fall into?"
"Wyverns. The dragons native to your world have always been wyverns—two legs, wings as forelimbs, the body configuration you see here. True dragons are... different. Four legs, separate wings, typically larger and more magically potent. The distinction is significant."
"But you're in a wyvern form right now," Daenerys pointed out. "Does that make you a wyvern?"
Angelus chuckled, the sound rumbling through her chest. "My current form is wyvern-type, yes. It's the configuration I default to at this level of power. But I carry the blood of true dragons—the ancient lineage that predates this world's draconic species by eons. When I evolve further, my form may change to reflect that heritage. These three..." She nodded toward the hatchlings. "They'll always be wyverns. Powerful ones, yes, but fundamentally different from what I am." She paused and think to herself. Though that might change in the future.
"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. Wyverns are formidable in their own right, and with proper training and magical enhancement, these three could become the equals of any dragon in your world's history. They simply have different limitations than a true dragon would."
Balerion chose that moment to attempt breathing fire at Daenerys's hand. What emerged was more of a warm puff than actual flame, but the intent was unmistakable.
"Case in point," Angelus said dryly. "Already aggressive. We'll need to start discipline training immediately, or he'll be uncontrollable by the time he's large enough to be dangerous."
---
Three Weeks Later
---
The wyverns grew at an astonishing rate.
Fed on magical creature meat from the Zaldri-Rhaes's hunting expeditions, they went from cat-sized hatchlings to horse-sized juveniles in less than a month. Balerion remained the largest, his black scales developing the textured, almost armored appearance that would one day make him terrifying to behold. Mikhail grew more elegant, it's white-grey coloring making it look like something out of legend when it stretched it's wings. Enoch developed into a powerful, steady presence, his green scales and bronze wing membranes suggesting the deep forests he would never see.
Training them was challenging—especially Balerion, who tested Angelus's patience on a daily basis.
"No," she said firmly for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, using her tail to sweep the black wyvern away from the food stores he was trying to raid. "You eat when I say you can eat. Not before."
Balerion hissed at her, his eyes blazing with frustrated defiance.
"That attitude might have worked when you were Aegon's mount and no one dared challenge you, but things are different now." Angelus leaned down until her snout was inches from his face. "I am the alpha here. You will respect that, or you will learn respect the hard way."
The young wyvern held her gaze for a long moment—longer than any of his siblings ever dared—before finally looking away with a sulky growl.
"Better. Now go join your siblings for patrol practice."
Balerion stalked off, radiating wounded dignity, and Angelus allowed herself a small sigh.
He's difficult, she admitted to Daenerys through their bond.
He's proud, Daenerys replied, watching the interaction from nearby. Like someone else I know.
I'm not that difficult.
You absolutely are.You're just better at hiding it.
The training continued regardless. Angelus drilled the young wyverns in aerial maneuvers, in coordinated attacks, in the discipline required to follow commands even when their instincts urged otherwise. Mikhail and Enoch adapted quickly, their temperaments suited to the structured environment. Balerion fought every lesson, but even his defiance couldn't prevent him from learning.
And the Zaldri-Rhaes adapted to their new additions.
The warriors had been understandably nervous when the wyverns first appeared—even juvenile dragons were dangerous, and three of them moving through camp demanded respect. But as weeks passed and the creatures proved responsive to Daenerys and Angelus's commands, the nervousness transformed into pride. These were their wyverns, symbols of what the Zaldri-Rhaes had become.
Daenerys had begun training as a dragon rider as well, though Angelus was her mount rather than the juveniles. She learned to maintain her seat during aerial maneuvers, to communicate with Angelus through their bond while managing her own weapons, to coordinate attacks against ground targets from dragonback.
"You're improving rapidly", Angelus noted after a particularly successful training session. "A few more weeks and you'll be ready for actual combat scenarios."
"Good. I want to be useful when we finally make our move, not just a passenger."
"You were never going to be just a passenger. But there's a difference between wanting to contribute and being skilled enough to do so effectively."
They landed at the edge of the camp, and Daenerys slid from Angelus's back with practiced ease. Around them, the Zaldri-Rhaes went about their daily business—training, crafting, preparing for whatever challenges the future held.
"Report!"
The shout came from the perimeter, and both Angelus and Daenerys turned to see a scout galloping toward them at full speed.
"What is it?" Daenerys demanded as the rider skidded to a halt.
"A stranger at the perimeter, khaleesi. A knight, by his armor—Westerosi, I think. He says he's heard of the Zaldri-Rhaes and wants to offer his services."
Angelus felt recognition stir in her mind, memories from another timeline surfacing.
Jorah, she realized. I completely forgot about Jorah Mormont.Oops.
"Bring him to us," Daenerys ordered, then glanced at Angelus. "You know something."
In the timeline I remember, Jorah Mormont was your most loyal advisor and protector. He was with you from before you even met Drogo, though I guess that changed in this timeline. He was also one of the exiled nobles who attached themselves to Viserys's cause. Angelus's mental voice carried caution. He was also, initially, a spy for Robert Baratheon, reporting on your movements in exchange for a pardon.
A spy?
One who eventually became genuinely devoted to you, to the point where he betrayed his spymaster to protect you. But that devotion bordered on obsession—he was in love with you, and that love colored everything he did.
Daenerys absorbed this information as the guards brought forward the stranger.
He was a middle-aged man, weathered by travel and hard living, wearing armor that had clearly seen better days. But he carried himself with the bearing of a trained warrior, and his eyes—when they found Daenerys—held a complex mixture of hope and wariness.
"Your Grace," he said, dropping to one knee. "I am Ser Jorah Mormont, formerly of Bear Island in the North. I've come to offer you my sword and my service."
"Rise, Ser Jorah." Daenerys's voice was carefully neutral. "I'm curious—how did you hear of us? We've been building our forces in relative isolation."
"Stories travel, Your Grace. Traders in Pentos speak of a Targaryen princess who rides a dragon and commands an army of scaled warriors. Most dismiss it as fantasy, but I've learned not to discount tales of dragons." His gaze shifted to Angelus, and to his credit, he didn't flinch. "I see the stories were, if anything, understated."
"Why do you want to serve me?" Daenerys pressed. "You're Westerosi. Presumably you have family, connections, a life on the other side of the Narrow Sea."
"I was exiled from Westeros years ago for selling poachers into slavery. My family holds no love for me, and my homeland has nothing to offer but the block." Jorah's voice was steady, but Angelus caught the undertones of old pain. "I've spent years wandering Essos, selling my sword to whoever would pay. When I heard about you—about what you're building—I thought perhaps I could do something more meaningful with what time I have left."
He's telling the truth*, Angelus noted. At least about his motivations for coming here. Whether he's still reporting to Baratheon is another matter.
Can we trust him?
Eventually, perhaps. For now, I'd recommend keeping him at arm's length while we verify his story and observe his behavior. Angelus studied the kneeling knight with ancient eyes. The Jorah I remember proved his loyalty through years of service and sacrifice. This one hasn't had that opportunity yet.
Daenerys nodded slightly, acknowledging the advice.
"Your offer is noted, Ser Jorah," she said finally. "The Zaldri-Rhaes can always use skilled warriors, and if your reputation is accurate, you qualify. But trust is earned, not given—especially to strangers who arrive unannounced."
"I would expect nothing less, Your Grace."
"You'll be assigned quarters and duties appropriate to your rank. Prove yourself useful, and we'll discuss a more permanent arrangement. Betray us..." She let the threat hang in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.
"I understand completely."
"Good." Daenerys turned to the guards. "See that Ser Jorah is settled. I'll speak with him again in a few days."
As the knight was led away, Angelus moved to stand beside her partner.
Well handled.
I learned from the best. Daenerys's mental voice carried a hint of wry humor. What do you think? Useful asset or potential threat?
Potentially both. The Jorah I remember was genuinely devoted to you, but that devotion came after years of shared experiences. This one is a blank slate—we'll have to see what he writes on it.
Daenerys watched the retreating figure of the exiled knight, her transformed features unreadable.
Then we'll watch and see. She decided.
---
End of Chapter Five